


Hot Sauce Should Never Be in the Recirculated Air, Even by Accident (or Pheromones, Remixed)(Twice)

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ABO, ABO bonding, Alpha Phil Coulson, Clint Barton's unfortunate self-image, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint refuses to be a delicate flower, Desperation, In-control Phil Coulson, M/M, Omega Clint Barton, Remix, frustrating biology and urges, illicit use of a drug not for the purpose of getting high, little bits of hand-feeding and care-taking, mention of pregnancy as a possible kink, mention of the concept of male omega pregnancy, mentions of other MCU characters - Freeform, multiple male orgasms (because omega), no actual force breeding or sterilization, no actual pregnancy, reference to forced breeding or sterilization, reference to prostitution, spaceship au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: So Clint is an omega, in principle, but what good is being an omega if your heats don't work right and take a million years every time and also aren't even appealing to alphas?  All that does is piss off all and sundry (including self) and so fine, he finds a workaround.  Except... the workaround backfires kind of spectacularly?  Because of course it does; this is Clint we are talking about.  Except.  You know what, maybe it fired in the right direction after all.  Huh.





	Hot Sauce Should Never Be in the Recirculated Air, Even by Accident (or Pheromones, Remixed)(Twice)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pheromones and Recirculated Air Should Not Be Mixed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7433672) by [uofmdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uofmdragon/pseuds/uofmdragon). 



> I may have gone somewhat afield from the original; I used the concept of Clint having messed up heats, of Coulson being the alpha ship captain that is annoyed to find there is someone in heat on his ship, and (duh) the outcome of Clint/Coulson, but else, it went a pretty different direction. There are, however, lines of dialogue here and there that I lifted as-is.
> 
> I think I have sufficiently tagged things people might want tagged, but I welcome input if you think there should be something more. Also, ABO fic is not so much my wheelhouse, so if you think I've deeply misinterpreted something about the conventions of the concept, I'd be interested to hear.
> 
> Spoiler notes re: title and tags in the endnote for readers who like to know ahead what they are getting into.

“What were you thinking?” Phil snapped. His face was red and actually twitching, minute little flickers that Clint’s sharp eyes picked up as he stared. 

Phil waited, nostrils trying so hard to flare, and Clint, okay, Clint knew perfectly well why he was struggling to respond; an alpha (one he _wanted_ , all the time not just now) was angry, and his weird omega body was trying, hard, to put him in some kind of bullshit submissive take-me-daddy kind of pose. Which, that was not a dynamic Clint was into basically ever, and definitely not with Phil. Not even now, when he was there with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the kind of ferocity in his eyes that made Clint’s dick (and his super-inconvenient bonding gland which might actually be worse) think very very bad things and consider that Phil’s interests might be more important than his own.

Shut up, penis. And stupid chemical neckbumps.

It would have been a great idea, he told himself harshly even as he felt his eyes widen, his pupils dilate, his knees try to spread (that one, he managed to control), his freaking neck gland start throbbing in this super-distracting way that was simultaneously nauseating and arousing because obviously, to have prepared a response so he could call on that when 95 percent of his will was busy fighting biology. Goddammit. Should have started working on that the instant he’d realized what was happening this morning. Best he could do at this point was listen while he tried to get his damn autonomic systems to chill the fuck out before they started co-opting voluntary behavior.

“There are strict rules and regulations in place for a planetary heat for _good reasons_ , Barton,” Phil said next. Clint watched the way his forearms flexed just the tiniest bit, invisible to someone not as deeply, intimately (and secretly; he wasn't an idiot who didn't know what would happen if he said anything) in tune with the perfection that was Phil Coulson as he was, and tried not to drool. “You _do not_ go into heat on board a spaceship. We’re dealing with recycled air, here. Do you know what that means? That means everyone can smell—you’re just _lucky_ you were in a part of the ship that could be closed off for the hop. If the scent had filtered through faster, it might have distracted the flight crew, and I for one don’t feel like flying through a star because Specialist Klein’s brain has relocated to his pants and left stellar cartography far behind.”

Clint snorted a startled little laugh at that. “Klein? Come on. Klein’s a good guy. He was the first one to stand up to the pirates with Carter when Crossbones’ crew tried to take over,” he began, and oh hey, once he started in defense of Klein, talking got easier. “Also, I don’t think I would distract him, but also also, hey no, that was not _luck_. I’m not quite that stupid, Coulson. That was _planning_.”

Phil narrowed his eyes at the backtalk. “So you _knew_ you were going into heat when you reboarded? And…” he drew in a long breath through now openly-flaring nostrils. “And that you were apparently, what’s wrong here, you’re sick, to boot?”

Clint shook his head. “Not the story, no. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not explain this while my body is trying to get on its knees and present, man.” He kind of enjoyed the jaw-wobble at that, even though once he said it, it was all he could do to clamp his hands around the edge of the narrow medbay mattress frame and not hit the floor. He gritted his teeth and went on, “Come back later. I’ll stay here in the biofield and be good. Also, I assume you know Kate’s a beta so she’s in the clear. She can probably manage weapons all on her own, not that you’ll probably need, well anyway, I mean, she can.”

“Kate is _not_ in the clear; just because I’m a stodgy old captain doesn’t mean I don’t know the smell of Hot Sauce on her, and she’s pretty close to you. Was she going to—“

“No it’s not, she’s not, that’s not what happened.” Clint said, unable to even process the stodgy and old parts of that sentence because what the fuck. “Go see.”

“I have more important things to do,” Phil said. “For one, keeping the alphas from petty fistfighting and squabbling to the detriment of their work because they’re on edge over you. We caught it early enough that most of them haven’t even worked out why they’re so tense and the ones who have have mostly had the sense to isolate and make use of dampening compounds, _legal_ ones, but it could still spiral into a bloodbath.”

Clint nodded, still gripping the bed . That part was true enough; it was just that the timing of this wasn’t actually his fault, quite. Exactly. Okay, sort of, but only because of fucking biology (literally, ha), and not in a way he should have been able to predict. Anyway. “Fine, but she’s got weapons under control—she’s young, but she’s almost as good a shot as I am and regardless of all of this, you know I’m totally the best there is for that, at least.”

“You are,” Phil agreed. “It’s why I signed you on, and you’ve shown it half a dozen times now.” His hands moved again, the corded muscle of his forearms bunching a tiny bit, and Clint bit back a groan at how much he wanted to just lean forward, reach over, and _feel_ that while Phil offered this basically not even significant piece of not-quite-praise. “I’m going to have to trust your opinion on her, though, because as I said, bigger problems.”

Gripping the bed wasn’t getting any easier, and the word trust was actually _worse_ , if anything, than the almost-praise. Damn it. Clint tried to make the shift of his thighs invisible, although it was obvious Phil noticed, and sighed. “Anyway. Coulson, can you just—unless you’re planning to stay, can you go?”

“Stay?” Phil growled once, low, and shook his head. “Things I definitely cannot do, and do not want to do, Barton, include stay here with you now.”

And like, that wasn’t really a surprise, but it still hurt. Actually, immediately after the trust thing, it hurt a _lot_. But Phil did leave, spending the minimum eighteen seconds in the decontam field glaring at Clint before punching the release and getting out, so that was something.

Clint lay back and ignored the sensation of slick fluids dripping out of him onto the bed beneath him, and tried to figure out how, exactly, he was going to track down the dealer who made this mess and make him pay. Well, if Phil dropped him at the next stop and took off, he supposed it would be easy enough to get back to the edge of the Sokovian System, and that was as good a start as any.

He was well aware of why Phil was upset. He was upset too – on multiple levels, really. The whole Hot Sauce issue was only one part of the problem; the rest was his stupid fucked-up biology. Because being an omega who had long, slow, ineffective heats that didn’t usually even inspire a response out of most alphas without significant help? Frustrating as hell. All the horny, all the need, none of the satisfaction unless he paid someone to show up and painfully shove their knot inside his barely-slick ass and then mostly lie there, bored at best, abusive at worst, while he jerked off for a couple of days. And, because he was slow, usually they’d leave him to it for another five or six extremely unsatisfying and never the less required days alone once their knots subsided for good. It sucked. Plus, he was so irregular that the only way he could ever guess whether his next heat might be in three months or eight was that he’d start to feel it, undetectable to anyone because it was never all _that_ detectable, a couple of weeks before it got real.

He hadn’t ever let anyone from one of the big conglomerates lay hands on him to figure out why he didn’t work right; if conventional wisdom was to be trusted, reproductive system problems in omegas, particularly _male_ omegas, were prioritized somewhere below hangnails, and the most likely outcome was some kind of enforced breeding and/or sterilization. His body might not do things normal omegas did, but he did actually want to keep his balls and did _not_ want to birth a child he couldn’t care for. So. Well, and he wanted to keep the _capacity_ to bear a child someday; just because he wasn't ready _now_ didn't mean it was 100% impossible he ever would be.

The best guess he had, based on some cheap hours in the library suite on Waverly and some less cheap ones scraped together between mobster encounters in the Five Boroughs system, was that this was all part and parcel with his undernourished, under-nurtured childhood, that the parts of his system that were supposed to produce sympathetic hormones and generate the functional, pleasant feedback between himself and an alpha that were part of everyone else’s normal, predictable, effective heats? Were just totally stunted or atrophied to nothing. 

One theory was that this, like the rest of his fucked up childhood, lay squarely on his parents—that their neglect had led his body to not follow appropriate developmental paths. Another was that he had been born broken, and that was why they hadn’t cared for him properly. It probably didn’t matter which was the case and he was positive finding out for sure would just stomp his self-worth to shit again, which is something a man can only stand so many times in his life so just, no.

Either way, the best solution he’d ever found, three years and a bit ago, had been accidental, a mixed up drink order in an extremely seedy bar of the type in which one found people willing to fuck for money. He’d gotten the drink of a beta whore looking to fake a heat; alphas who wanted to go bareback were usually willing to pay a lot for an omega who wasn’t going to want a bond, wasn’t going to come looking for support for a baby, wasn’t going to need anything afterward at all.

The chemical its developers had just called formula OX-9882-A4KK3, colloquially known as Hot Sauce, which by the way was utterly illegal because hey, so was prostitution outside of the carefully-controlled and government-maintained centers Clint didn’t ever go to because, see previous, he didn’t want to take the risk of the gods only knew what kind of testing and/or procedures might follow? Hot Sauce made betas produce a facsimile of the slick Clint’s body was usually pretty lousy at. It made them smell like omegas, more or less. It made them high enough to like the knot and needy enough to be convincing. For pimps, it was great for business, and for the whores they managed it was a way to make the job better. Less worse. Whatever.

In Clint, though, Hot Sauce was basically a miracle. Three days of real heat, not a week and a half. Need that hit hard and fast, that built from nothing to critical in half an hour rather than two weeks. A real, vigorous fight over him. An alpha who paid _him_ for the privilege (whatever) even though he did manage to keep enough of his brain in the game to require a condom. A guy who was enthusiastic about fucking him and a body that slicked up and opened easily, that allowed the kind of eager, urgent, vigorous banging that alphas were made for and that Clint had wanted but never had.

He thought no one at all should blame him for finding out how to get more of the stuff, and after a while he’d tracked down a guy acting as a doctor even though he said he was more of a physicist, who not only sold him several heats’ worth for himself, but also gave him the counteragent -A46F9, colloquially known as Ice Bath. Which was probably not as safe as the _legal_ dampeners Coulson's crew might have taken, but which was effective, available without uncomfortable questions, and came with a nice little kick of energy because coming off a fast hard heat was kind of exhausting, so.

In any case, Clint didn’t care about the cute names. All he cared about was that now he could rationally work a ship without constantly getting kicked out and/or left behind. When he felt the first vague stir of heat, he could still have plenty of time to get to the next layover, and he could find a willing alpha that didn’t give him the creeps, toss back a few gulps of the sauce, and be ready to work again in four days, three in a pinch. Planetary layovers were rarely less than a five days for resupply, repair, re-acquisition of necessary resources, and so on, and were often a full week, so, easy peasy. 

Plus, it seemed to have kick-started a more regular cycle; now he was seeing heats about every 22 to maybe 30 weeks, which was more predictable than ever before in the 20-odd years he’d been having them every 9 to 48 or so. Still outside the “average” range of 24-27, but not that bad and if the literature he’d looked at surreptitiously was right, now at least within a standard deviation or so, in company with nearly 80% of other omegas. 

So yeah, suuuuper illegal. Fuck that, still the right choice. He was employable, he’d picked up a hanger-on and good, if sarcastic, friend in Kate, and he actually had several credits on his account at the same time, so yeah. Right choice.

Except this time. 

This time, in his second heat since picking up an awesome contract with this ship, this ship which goddammit he _liked_ and wanted to fucking _keep_ , he’d waited for docking, checked the schedule (five days of leave), and bolted for an appropriate hookup bar. He’d gotten his eyes on a guy he'd be willing to approach, made sure he had condoms in his pocket right where he wouldn't forget, drunk his drink, and waited. And waited. And nothing had happened. Or rather, nothing like the usual had happened. This time, he’d just kept building the slow, unsatisfying, unappealing heat that had always been so miserable. He hadn’t even been able to make himself find someone willing to be paid for his time. He’d just waited out the four days, angry with his constantly half-hard dick and unable to even get himself off, then sighed, drunk the Ice Bath because obviously if he was going back aboard the ship he couldn’t be like this, and cleaned up to report for duty. As far as he’d been able to tell, the Ice Bath had done its thing well enough, and certainly nothing had pinged the biosensors on the way back across.

But then, about 32 hours after they’d left port, the Ice Bath …failed? Wore off? Who the fuck knew, but because of course it did, the Hot Sauce had turned on to maximum. Apparently. Nothing about the whole thing made sense, except for how this was him, and so of course. Fucking biology. As soon as he’d figured out what was going on he’d holed up with Kate in the least air-recycling space available, told her what was what because at least she already knew he was a mess, and started trying to work out how to do the least damage to himself and the crew because of course, if this was happening he was going to get very needy, damagingly needy, very fast.

That was how he’d wound up in here – despite his efforts to stay small, Phil had found him a couple of hours in, and okay the biofilters in here were way better than the rest of the ship for good reasons, but taking out the medbay for this was not something Clint would have thought of on his own; what if someone actually _needed medical help_? What if someone _important_ needed it?

And now Phil Coulson, who ran the best ship Clint had ever worked on and also was the first alpha he’d ever really, deeply, uncontainably wanted with every part of himself from brain to heart to balls (two facts that were probablypretty inecapably tied together), was pissed because of course he was the kind of captain who realized what was going on and whose fault it was immediately and stormed in to deal with it. And it was, technically, Clint’s fault.

All he could really hope for at this point was that they could and would drop him somewhere with at least a couple of places to choose from, and soon enough he was still able to even make a coherent choice (unlikely -- he was maybe a couple hours from delerium right now, and unless they had already been closer to Rosehill (dwarf planet, sure, but at least there was oxygen?) than he thought when he fell apart, there was literally nothing in range that met those criteria. Space was big.), because if they sent him to a government facility, he was probably going to be in bad enough shape by then to have no choice but to let them do whatever they wanted and his earlier opinions on that still held. He wondered how hard it would be to just get back to his quarters through the maintenance tubes – _not_ the vents; see previous regarding recycling of air –and slug down the rest of the Ice Bath he had on hand. It might not kill him? Or it might, but either way it would probably stop him from making half the the crew, and more importantly Phil, crazy.

Or… he shifted on the bed, his asshole audibly squelching as he moved, and felt the frustrating rub of the sheet over his swollen dick. Maybe if he could just survive and get past the worst of this, it would dissipate? This was _his_ body, after all. Normal wasn’t among its states and he did have a bunch of chemical assistance on board.

He didn’t really hope it would work, but Phil had decontaminated himself, not the room; Clint could still smell him and it Was. Not. Helping. And honestly, what would it hurt at this point to get himself off here? Sure, he was alone and pathetic, but Phil already knew he was a mess and thought he was irresponsible enough to do this on purpose, so it wasn’t going to be worse. He sighed and slid his hand down his body. However, when he wrapped his hand around himself, it felt electric, not in any good way. It felt sharp, hot, like a shock stuck in a feedback loop between his hand and his dick. His bonding gland, which had never even really bothered swelling all that much before, felt like an angry tear in the muscles of his neck and shoulder, like he had some kind of rupture wound there for no good reason.

Great. Now he actually couldn’t even get himself off, and he was getting more desperate by the minute. The bonding gland throbbed and ached and Clint lay there, counting off minutes and trying to work out, 32 hours, and he'd been here maybe five now, so that was 37; they had to be something like three-quarters of the way to Triskellion by now if they were still on course and hadn't encountered any problems. Any _other_ problems, besides Clint. Triskellion had everything, so if he could maybe, if Phil would listen, maybe he could leave a note about what he needed to negotiate? He was going to be in no shape to handle it himself by then, for sure, but Phil _was_ a good captain, so maybe he would follow through despite this being Clint's mess?

He rolled to his side and rocked a little, trying to ignore the way the slick ran down across one buttcheek like his ass was crying, and worked on paying attention to the way the ship was moving. Were they heading back the way they’d come, back towards Pegasus? That would take another 18 or 20 hours, at least, and that was if they pushed the shit out of the engines. And given their cargo… that would probably cause serious problems. Plus, Pegasus was totally a hole in the ground, so if it was up to Clint, that was 100% not what they were doing.

Well, he hoped eventually someone brought him food and water. More water. Obviously he couldn’t leave to go get anything himself, and with no one else in the medbay—

The door opened again, and Phil stepped through the decontam chamber and in, dragging a levitray with a couple of closed boxes and a plaspaper bag on it. “Why the hell did you take a drug to put you in heat?”

“Are you kicking me out? Or, you know, is the company, the director?” Clint didn’t want to answer the actual question, and besides, this information was more important to his eventual well-being. Probably they were, obviously, but just, he wanted to know whether there was a reason to hold out hope?

Phil glared and made to step forward. “Are you _trying_ to get kicked out?”

Clint sighed. “No, but at the moment my dick is trying to dig a hole in anything it comes in contact with and an alpha in the room is not easier. Stay over there.”

Phil shook his head and held up his (gloved) hands, then reached into the bag and tossed Clint a still-packaged breather-mask. He turned it over a couple of times, reading the package. “What’s this for?”

“So we can have a coherent fucking conversation,” Phil said. He held up another one and put it over his own face. “We don’t exactly have hundreds of these or it would be easier to figure out what to do next,” he added.

That was true. They were intended to work for a few hours, tops, filtering air so crews could repair the engines or work in semi-toxic spaces for short periods. Clint ripped his open and held it to his face. He had to admit, it helped at least a tiny bit. “What do we need to figure out?” he asked.

“How to _not_ kick you out, for one thing. Once I'd handled everything else I did go talk to Kate. She says there’s a reason you reek of Hot Sauce, and whatever else it is that my nose is interpreting as something wrong with the heat, but she also says it’s not all her story to tell no matter who I am. So what we need to figure out before this makes either of us incoherent is, why you took a drug designed for betas and probably seriously not designed for you to put you in heat—were you trying to make the crew revolt or something?”

“No! God, no. You know I’d put myself where it would do least harm! I wouldn’t—“

“Okay, so why?”

Clint sighed. “It’s not a plot or anything. I didn’t take it to put me in heat. I took it to make my stupid fucked-up heat work right on a reasonable timeline.”

“That’s approximately what Kate said, or at least implied because she wouldn't _tell_ me much of anything--and Barton, she is a really good friend to you in case you don't know because I brought Rogers with me and she didn't even flinch about refusing to answer all my questions, but with no additional context I have no idea what it means.”

Clint explained as briefly as possible. “My stupid body has stupid long weak heats. They don’t work right for alphas in the first place but they fucking keep me off the clock and since they take a million years then I usually get fired. If I take that shit, I have some control over making them actually goddamn work right and also end in a normal layover’s timeframe. This time, it didn’t work.”

“ _This_ time?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s worked before, worked fine, remember the layover at Budapest station? I mean, that place was kind of a hellstorm in other ways, but _that_ part worked, and pardon me but you were none the wiser when I got back so it obviously didn't strike you as a problem then because I am, generally, pretty responsible with this shit." Clint didn't like the judgment in Phil's tone, so even though it made his belly quiver and his eyes well up a little to defend himself, he did.

Phil glared. “And did it ever occur to you that maybe it would at some point not work right because it’s _designed for bodies that don’t have heats?_ ”

“Well, I mean, I never fucking cared? Why do we have to talk about this? Can you just get someone to toss some purplejuice and a couple of protein blocks in here and maybe a contagion box so you can move me once we get wherever you’re dropping me?“

“So here’s the problem. I can’t delay the shipment by the five days it would total to go back even as far as Pegasus, and since there’s nowhere even that close off the route that has an appropriate hospital--”

“Don’t need a hospital, Coulson, just someplace at least kind of safe, and I’d appreciate help negotiating to avoid a pregnancy. When you came in I was just thinking about trying to write up something in case you couldn't dump me off while I was still verbal.”

“As I was saying.” Clint winced at the irritation in Phil’s voice. “I also can’t have you distracting us all for the next two weeks, or even the next solar day while we divert to Triskellion, so the best bet is to get this done, in here, and then hope like hell no alpha gets hurt and needs med services before we get somewhere that can do a proper decontam.”

And see, that was exactly why Clint wouldn’t have taken up this space on his own, although now that he thought about it, at least medical could probably be available for _some_ of the crew. Although, shit, the medic was an alpha so that was kind of a problem. Also, two weeks? Yeah, no, that wouldn't be a problem; he'd either have died of omega isolation syndrome or recovered if the Ice Bath kicked back in way before that point. He'd tried to wait out heats alone before, and he was just about sure with the strength of the urges he was feeling now it wouldn't be at all possible now.

“Yeah, I thought maybe I could just get by, but I.” Clint stopped, miserable. “I can't. I don't even know if I can make it to tomorrow, honestly. This is the worst. But I can’t even. Look, who do we have that you’re willing to send in here?”

“So you don’t have a preference?”

“I _do_ have a preference, because contrary to opinions, omegas are not actually sluts with no conscience—“ Clint shivered again at his own insolence in the presence of a powerful alpha, but goddammit he was not going to stop being who he was even if it _did_ make everything hurt.

“Did I say you were? I was asking a goddamn question.”

“Fine. No, I do have a preference but since this is my mess I’m willing to take whatever steps we can, short of like emergency castration, so whoever you have, I’ll take him. I guess you also have me not getting knocked up as an interest in that regard, so.”

“And if I tell you I’m sending Rogers in here?”

Clint’s thighs quivered at the prospect of the stamina and force Phil’s supersoldier guard would bring, but another part of him recoiled, and not only because everyone knew Rogers had his own complicated dual-alpha relationship with an omega at home. He didn’t even have a right to object to that aspect. He ground his teeth together and didn’t say no. 

“And you hate that idea. Hill and some fabricated toys? Kate and some artificial pheromones?"

Clint made a face. "I don't, okay so girls, but also, I don't." He struggled with how to say this, because seriously, he was the one in the bad position here. "I don't want to fuck up positive relationships by needing things people can't, like, shit. But if that's what you've got."

"I could suggest s team approach -- Mack and Yoyo for instance: her pheromones, his dick. They'd probably do it, but what if say I’m taking care of things myself?”

Jesus. Clint couldn’t do a damn thing about dropping the mask and sliding his body to the floor, elbows and knees planted, back arched, dick throbbing, asshole pulsing and dripping wet, but he did manage to croak in the direction of the thermacrete flooring, “I don’t want you if you aren’t happy about it.” There was nothing at all convincing about his tone, but he figured maybe the fact he was bothering to say it at all would help? God. It _was_ true, in that Clint wasn’t excited about the notion of being pitied, at least by this man, but shit, he wanted him.

“I’m _not_ happy about it,” Phil said, “but I’m _less happy_ about any of the other choices. So tell me, in words. Am I acceptable?”

Clint knew, _knew_ , the other choices were things like penalty-incurring delay, loss of a good weapons officer and pilot (not that he was irreplaceable, obviously), inciting the kind of riots that might follow if any rank and file alpha got to rut while everyone else didn’t… but it didn’t stop him from shuddering at the opportunity to pretend it had anything to do with Phil feeling jealous.

He didn’t try to look up, fearing that would make it impossible to keep pretending, but instead just dropped his forehead to his hands and slid his knees apart, waiting, as he murmured, “Yessss.” He really had been prepared to allow whoever Phil said, but now all he could think about was wantwantwant. Even though really, a positive relationship with this man was even more critically important to him than the others stated previously. "Pleasedon'thateme."

“Do you have preferences about how we do this?”

“Now?” Clint managed, voice thick because now, shit, he was getting stupid-emotional as well as terminally biologically impaired, and because speaking was almost impossible.

“That’s a given, Barton. Besides that. Do you prefer to be on your knees?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Did you eat this morning?”

“Uh. I dunno? I don’t, when is it?” Clint arched more, the backs of his thighs now sticky-slick and cold.”

“May I feed you?”

Clint shuddered even more at that and pushed up to his hands, his deep need to look at Phil, to gauge the purpose of the question, warring with the hardened part of him that had learned as a child never to ask a question you didn’t want to know the answer to.

“Barton, I need to know. If you’d rather we try to keep this impersonal, I’ll do my best, but if it’s up to me…”

Clint steeled himself and looked up, surprised to find Phil had dropped the mask and stripped off the gloves, that he had one of the boxes in one hand, and was holding out the other to Clint. He’d stepped close, not that it mattered a lot to Clint, who was absolutely going to do anything he said, and his pants, mouthwateringly, were distended with the press of his obviously-hard dick.

Clint whimpered, then let himself be helped up. 

Because this alpha, who fuck it he was pretending was _his_ alpha, was making it clear that was what he wanted, and Clint was, yes, going to do anything he said.

Even if, as seemed painfully likely right now with his own dick up hard and tight against his belly and slick starting to pool on the floor between his feet, what he said was that they were going to wait until Clint was too incoherent to even express any kind of reservation he might have. Which… okay, this was Phil, but it was also the kind of shit Clint had heard of as a way to control an omega from the outset, and he wasn’t looking to be controlled.

“Better,” Phil said. “You’re eating before we do this because I don’t know how long we—anyway, you’re eating. Here, start with this.” He handed Clint a purplefruit and some nutty-sweet cheese Clint didn’t even know how or why he had on board, then picked up the other box. “You eat. I’m going to see about…” He went behind Clint, who _hated_ having people go behind him where he couldn’t see but couldn’t manage to turn because now his need to trust his alpha was winning over self-preservation by an extremely large margin (shit), and traced one finger down Clint’s spine.

Clint shoved half the fruit and one chunk of cheese in his mouth as he went back down to the floor. 

“Keep working on it,” Phil said, his voice tense. The finger traced back up and back down, and then Clint felt the cool hard press of something—some kind of _toy_ and no, that wasn’t what he needed! He needed—but Phil’s hands were on him and the thing was _big_ stretching him with a burn that felt like half pressure, half spice, and maybe Phil was big enough he _needed_ the stretch, which was an idea that made Clint light-headed. Usually he didn’t really care much, but somehow today, he cared a lot. 

It really didn’t seem fair that after the life he’d led to date he should be experiencing new and embarrassing kinds of need at this point, and yet.

He swallowed the food in his mouth the best he could, then whined, “Please?”

“We’ll get there,” Phil promised. “Come here.” 

Clint backed toward Phil’s voice, scrambling and slipping in the mess he’d made on the floor, but Phil chuckled. “No, come on. Stand up. I know you can.”

Going. To do. Whatever. Phil. Said. But the expression of confidence made him feel both stronger and weaker. Clint pushed upright, groaning at the full, heavy feeling in his ass, and turned around. Phil was holding up more purplefruit, leaning against the other medical bench until Clint came over to him and took the food. 

Phil ran the backs of his fingers down Clint’s cheek as soon as he was chewing again, and fuck, what _was_ this?”

“All right?”

Clint nodded slowly, trying not to be completely lewd as his dick tried _so hard_ to get some friction from any part of Phil. What he _wanted_ to do was mindlessly hump the man’s leg, right now, maybe his ankle because that would allow him to suck Phil’s enormous dick, and, and, ngggh, Phil was holding up more cheese. He petted Clint again when he took it, then handed him a drink (another pet), some of the high-energy high-protein balls crews sometimes used when shipboard emergency kept them from meals (a stroke down his chest), and another drink (no petting, but then as soon as Clint had finished it he took the bottle away and wrapped his hand around Clint’s eager, anxious dick.

To his horror, Clint came immediately, startled, sobbing, shooting all over Phil’s clothes, knees buckling, ass clenching, eyes tearing up and rolling back in his head as everything tightened and released. When he finally finished, he was seeing stars, holding his breath and trying to figure out which way was up, and the urge to drop to the floor again was overwhelming.

Phil just caught him and closed in, pulling him into a deep, dirty kiss broken only by the fact that he ran his thumb through Clint’s slit at the same time as he pressed his lips into Clint’s bonding gland, and then brought another little spurt of come up to his mouth.

Clint didn’t even try to stop the second orgasm that rolled through him when Phil sucked his thumb clean. No dignity even possible, just a jerking, shouting spasm that didn’t really make that much of a mess (with what? He’d just unloaded every cubic millimeter of his balls a minute ago). They tightened hard, trying to squeeze out a few more drops, and Clint just focused on not passing out.

Phil kissed him again, the trace taste of come in his mouth, then bit down on his lower lip, drawing blood and lapping at the wound. Clint somehow pulled back from that, shaking his head and forcing himself to say, “It’s okay, Coulson, you don’t gotta be all nice about—“

Phil gave him a sharp look, then tore his own shirt open and dropped it to the floor. His pants followed, pooling in the mess of come, slick, tears, hell probably snot at this point, and he’d apparently already ditched his shoes while Clint was eating. He jumped up on the other exam table and sat, knees straddling the narrow pad as he leaned back into the raised headrest. “Come here,” he said again.

Clint crawled up after him, knees between his thighs, hands outside his hips, and tried not to be embarrassed that he was literally drooling by the time he got his tongue on Phil’s dick. 

Phil petted his hair and pushed up into his mouth, but he was shaking with holding back, and Clint looked up, frowning both at that and at how his own sense of urgency was still present, but banked, how now all he seemed to care about was making Phil _feel good_ regardless of whether it solved the problem. “What?”

“What what?”

“Isn’t this what you—“

Phil shook his head. “I _do_ want you to do that, but I also am working very hard to keep in mind that until I knot you, we’re not going to get this done.”

“Oh. Right. Um.” Clint frowned. “Right, you don’t want to have to stay. But then why not just--“

“Barton.”

“What.”

“I don’t mean.” Phil stopped and beckoned Clint forward. “Just take the plug out.”

Clint nodded and reached back, bearing down and pushing it away until it slipped out, dropping between his calves with a splash that sprayed droplets of slick up onto his buttcheeks and thighs.

“Ride me.”

“Wait, but don’t you want to be, um. On top?”

Phil shook his head. “Not today Bar… Clint. Not today. Now come _here_.”

Clint crawled forward, knees barely fitting on the bed outside Phil’s hips, and lined up, then sank down on Phil’s dick. He was open, so wet he was dripping, and relaxed, so nothing about it was painful despite the size how deep Phil was in him--and that was so startling he dropped his knee off one side, tilting awkwardly until Phil shoved the other knee off, and then there he was, utterly impaled, full weight taking every inch of Phil, who put both hands on Clint’s hips and fucked up into him hard.

He’d never done anything quite like this, never faced an alpha while being fucked, or been on top, or felt the growing pressure of a rising knot so deep it felt like it was up under his stomach behind his ribs, but shit, he didn’t know why _not_ , because with one hand leaving fingernail marks and probably a pretty decent bruise in Phil’s chest, he was jerking himself furiously again almost immediately.

Phil slapped his hand away and grabbed the wrist, putting it on his chest too. “Squeeze,” he said. 

Clint gripped hard with both hands and let Phil manhandle him, his balls slapping down onto Phil’s belly with every sharp pull down and his dick slapping his own with every surprisingly vigorous push away. When Phil came, Clint did too, again, slumping forward with the effort and resting with his face against Phil’s jaw.

“Shit,” he said dully. “I didn’t um. So usually I have enough presence of mind to ask about condoms?”

Phil chuckled. “I’m clean.”

“No, I mean.” Clint closed his eyes. Maybe Phil wasn’t worried about it because _he_ had an implant or something? Maybe if Clint said anything, he’d just confirm there was no fucking chance he’d saddled himself with a needy mess and a baby. Maybe… “Nevermind. Nothing.” He shifted a little and brought his feet up to hook toes over Phil’s muscular thighs and let himself enjoy the full, content feeling of just staying.

Unsurprisingly, he fell asleep.

When he woke, it was to Phil petting his face. “You awake?”

“Mmph?” Okay, so that was smooth as shit. “I, sorry, I fell asleep, I mean.” Clint tried to pull his knees up under him, get out of the way, but Phil shook his head and clamped a hand down, gripping his asscheek, and held an electrolyte drink pack to his lips. He hadn’t noticed he was thirsty until given a drink, but once it was there he sucked it all down hard and couldn’t help the contented noise he made when he was done. 

Phil gave another squeeze, holding him in place, and the pressure reminded him his ass should be sore (true; he could feel bruising although it wasn’t particularly bothering him) and _that_ reminded him why he was here with Phil in the first place. That Phil was angry with him and didn’t have much choice but to do this.

Which didn’t explain why he was holding him in place. He should want him out of the way, right? He looked up. “Why—“

“There’s no rush, and you don’t have to stay right here, exactly, but the biofield is working on isolating the pheromones down to a corner so we can try to flush the room, and it’s simpler if we stay put.”

“What? How?”

Phil held up the remote in his hand. “I thought probably I would be here a little while, so I took precautions.” 

Clint looked at the mound of crumpled clothes, which were definitely not in reach, and the levitray, also too far away. “When?”

Phil nodded up at the little shelf overhead. “While we were getting undressed. I barely remembered, but it was important so I wouldn’t have to dump you on the floor to get to it.”

Clint squirmed a little so he could lift one of his mostly-asleep legs up and over, between Phil’s. “Why? I mean, why was that a consideration? Also, you could have solved this problem before it ever happened by just keeping me on all fours on the floor? Like, isn’t that more usual anyway?”

“It is, but as I didn’t want to get carried away and bond—“

“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be, I don’t know. I didn’t expect any of this.”

“Clearly. Neither did I, or we could maybe have had a conversation in a less fraught context.”

Clint brought his other leg up. “Okay, well I don’t know if I can stand up right now, but if you want up we can—“

“No, I _don’t_ want up. I thought I already said. I have everything I need.” Phil tugged Clint back down onto his chest, maybe a little bit forcefully although Clint knew (and could tell Phil knew he knew) he could get out if he really didn’t want to stay. It was confusing. And amazing.

And for fuck’s sake, now Phil was being nice to him. Cautious. Interested in his well being. Like, what? Clint had practically initiated an accidental alpha riot on his ship! “Um, okay, I mean, I don’t want to get up either, but you don’t have to hold me. You don’t have to take care of me. I can, I mean, I have before, always managed okay. When we get to wherever I’m sure they have pros that can provide skin contact?”

Phil’s grip tightened into a hard squeeze that felt almost like a spasm, but he relaxed it almost immediately and “Clint, it seems like you want to be petted even more than I want to pet you, and besides that if that were what I meant to do, I could have tossed a water pack and some protein gels in here and left you to—“

“Yeah, but it’s my fuckup. The only person that should pay for that is me. I know you got better stuff to do.”

"I’m trying really hard to remember the reasons why going ahead and bonding right now would be terrible and so in that regard continuing to lie right here is something of a problem, but no, I have nothing that’s actually _better_. There are standard parts of my usual job that I would be doing now, but I’m choosing to trust that Wu and Blake are on top of it, as they would be if I had fallen ill some other way.”

“No, I get you wouldn’t want a bond. But, um, it feels like we’re basically done? I’m not sure. I’ve never had a heat anything like this one.”

Phil hmmed, which Clint felt in his chest more than he actually heard. “No, it was unusual,” he said after a minute. “Burned out fast, once we got going. You were asleep a couple hours, is all.”

Clint scrunched up his face. “Like, that’s super weird, right?”

“It might be your drug going back to work—or the other drug wearing off hard and fast. It’s hard to say. That’s part of why I set the filters in here to work. I want to get new warning if it’s going off the rails again.”

“I think I’ll know.”

“I think I’ll know first,” Phil said. He patted the side of his nose with one finger. “You said yourself that without help, your hormones are unpredictable, but I could smell you when you came back aboard,”

“What. Then why did you let me—“

“I didn’t realize it wasn’t, okay, no that’s. Uh. Let me start again.”

“Sure,” Clint said. “Starting again is usually _my_ area, every time my life goes to shit, but sure.”

There was the spasmy squeeze again, and a hint of a growl, but it was gone almost before it started. Weird.

“I smelled heat, but it seemed like it was burned out, like smoke more than fire, maybe, but it was on you and it was making me crazy. No one else was having a problem, though. Still, when it sparked back up, it was obvious to me that it was you before everyone else started getting antsy. My point is, I think it will be apparent to me again at least as soon as to you, and we might as well keep an eye out and not let things get out of hand.”

“Okay, but sir you could accomplish that by leaving me here and checking in. You don’t have to stay.” Clint thought it sounded like Phil _wanted_ to stay, but of course, that was fucking ridiculous, so obviously he was just being all post-coitally delicate like some kind of stereotypical wilting flower omega and for fuck’s sake no, body. No, there was plenty of fucked up involving Clint’s biochemistry, but that would be a bridge too damn far.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No! Um. No, but I want you to be free to go.”

“Okay well, I want to stay, but I don’t actually want to _make_ you do anything. Not that my body is doing a very good job conforming on that,” Phil added, giving another squeeze.

Clint leaned into the squeeze and rubbed his face on Phil’s chest again like some kind of cat, because sure, why not. “You seem like the kind of guy who’s always in control,” he said.

“Previously, I would have agreed. Usually a rut is a rut. You, though. That’s not how this is turning out at all.”

“Well, the whole situation was out of your control,” Clint said, eyes down. All his fault. “I guess it stands to reason it might kind of spiral and fuck up your chill.”

Phil sighed. “I might buy that if I wasn’t lying here thinking about how I want to lay you out on a real bed and take my time with you, or how and when I can _do_ something about that bonding gland that it’s killing me to see there just waiting for me, or how next time maybe if you want we can choose non-spermicidal/non-barrier lube because then I can watch you grow my baby, or how—“

Clint shot upright and onto his knees, hands clawing their way down Phil’s torso and thighs as he sat back onto his heels and stared at Phil because what. the. hell. He felt his body flush, like he was both blushing and going cold everywhere at once, his mouth watering, his dick hardening again because, because… “What.” He rasped. “I don’t even, but I never, okay, but the lube, but I mean, and then you say, and now, nnngh words why are you hard.” He swallowed and tried again. “No, fine, slowing down: those are things you want?”

“They are, and that was basically true before you were ever in heat so it’s no real surprise to me that they’re true now. But I’ve never thought I wanted to bond in a shipboard situation before. Seems like borrowing trouble, which is why we should have had this conversation without any orgasms on the table. Or the floor.” Phil was also flushed, the bruises Clint’s nails had left on his pecs earlier darkening, but he set the remote down carefully and held out his hands to Clint. “And now, I don’t seem to care. Please?”

And, like, no one ever asked Clint please. Certainly not while they were lying beneath him with a growing (huge, god, he’d thought maybe he was imagining or fantasizing or something?) erection and 100% of the authority, both actual and ethical, in the situation and what the hell was he supposed to do with this? He held up a finger and scrambled off the table, managing at the last second not to land in a super-ungraceful heap on the floor, then went to get an antiseptic wipe. Because he was definitely sucking Phil’s dick now, and part of him gave no fucks at all about how it had recently been in his ass, but for one thing he had no idea how Phil might feel about that, and for another he did actually have an open wound in his mouth at the moment, and he felt like, like demonstrating responsible-ness and how he could absolutely be an adult even under weird circumstances.

Wiping Phil down was an experience; Clint’s thumb and first finger didn’t touch as he wrapped his hand around Phil’s dick with the wipe and it was all he could do to finish the task before dropping the cloth on Phil’s belly in case he wanted to clean up any more from earlier, and bending down to get his mouth on him again. 

The position was awkward, Clint standing on the floor, bending to suck and stroke when he couldn’t fit into his mouth, but it felt like the time to get up on the bed was a waste.

Phil set a hand in his hair, behind his ear with his pinky finger trailing down to touch the bonding gland that was, surprisingly, still swollen and hot even if the heat was more or less over, and gripped but didn’t push. “Clint.”

“B’sy,” Clint muttered, trying to work out how not to die of suffocation if he took more into his mouth (or, alternatively, whether it would be worth it).

“Clint.” Phil was more urgent this time, and Clint glanced toward him. “Clint, can you give me a second?”

Clint pulled off and stood. “ _What_? I get that like, consent every time is important and stuff but you stayed and I thought probably you were down with fucking again only I really, really want to taste, and like—“

“ _And like_ , I want that too but for the love of any available deity if you are not going to let me at that gland can you come around the other side so I don’t touch it by accident?”

“You _want_ at it?” Clint asked. He couldn’t help it. It was shitty form to talk about the damn thing while everyone wasn’t in their right might because of heat hormones, but then, what the hell, weren’t they done? Why was it even still bothering anyone? “No, I mean, you said, but like, sex talk? Fantasy kinds of things? I totally, I mean, I’m told that’s a thing, that people say things they don’t mean, and I figured, I mean it’s okay if this is all we’re doing but… but actually, you want?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Okay but now I have questions! Because you said you were sending in Steve, or Katie or Hill, or, well and you said a hospital and you said you didn’t want to stay before, and then just now you said—“

“That I want to put a baby in you, which I would definitely not do in a context where we had not at the very least worked through how to support any such thing not to mention whether that is even a thing you ever want to do because that is absolutely not why I want to be with you, and also fuck, fuck, fuck, I suggested alternatives because I wasn’t going to be the only one to choose and I said I didn’t want to stay because I was hoping to start this conversation with, I don’t know, dinner and a show? But even without your damn Hot Sauce or for that matter anything else that could possibly be biochemically acting on us at this point all I want is to put you on the floor and fill you up and make you,” Phil’s voice had gone increasing ragged during this speech, and here he paused, took a breath, and outright growled, nostrils flared, eyes dilated, grip on Clint’s wrist feral, “ _mine_.”

Clint put his other hand down on the table edge to support his buckling knees and echoed, “on the floor?”

“On the floor. On your back. On your belly. On a boat, on a train, in the rain, I don’t give a fuck, and as I said I was hoping to have a rational conversation about this but apparently that is no longer a thing I do.”

Clint swallowed hard and stepped back, then sat down on the floor, dick dripping pre-come on his abs, knees spread obscenely wide as he leaned back on one elbow and beckoned with his other hand. “I’m in.”

Phil’s knuckles on the edge of the table were white, but he hung back. “Would you want this otherwise?”

“Unless if means I can’t serve on this ship with you—“

“If it does I quit.”

Clint shuddered. “Then, yes, yes I would want, please get down here, or I can come up there, or—“

“Shut up.” Phil slid to the floor and dropped to his knees between Clint’s with a crack on the thermacrete (ow, that was going to bruise, Clint made a note because he was going to help him ice it later and take all the care with him he was getting now), then shuffled back and licked a wide, wet stripe up the underside of his cock.

Clint whined and dropped down onto his back, scooting along the floor under Phil and all but sliding onto him from there. He tilted his head, exposing the gland that at this point was throbbing almost painfully, and wrapped his ankles around the backs of Phil’s thighs. “Please?”

Phil’s face was wild, but he still managed to hold back. “How sore are you?”

“Fucks given, zero, but I’m fine. Get. In. Me. Lube optional because I don’t know if you know but my body makes its own and always before it sucked at it but now it’s great at it so you can get in me and I swear there’s still enough juice in me for even your monster dick and probably there's still spermicide but I don't give a shit and please get in me please.”

Phil licked his lips, slowly, like now that he was getting what he wanted there was time to prowl, and ran his fingers lightly down Clint’s arm, raising gooseflesh that made both of them shudder again. “After this I’m making you eat again.”

Clint nodded. “Mutual.”

“Any aversion to being pinned?” Phil asked, gripping Clint’s wrists and lightning-fast putting them together overhead, holding them there with one firm grasp as he set his other hand on the floor and teased Clint’s asshole with his tip. “Is this okay?”

“In. Me. Pleeeeeeease,” Clint wailed, bucking up. “Yes it’s okay.”

Phil pressed in and dropped down to lick, hot and then when air hit it, cold, across the bonding gland. Clint gasped. He did it again. “Yes?”

Clint nodded, eyes feeling glazed, whole body feeling feverish and desperate, and tilted his head further. “Bout to impale my neck on your teeth please bite please it’s okay do anything you want I mean anything please let me please you I want—oh.” He sighed as Phil broke the skin over the gland and pressed into him again. He felt… high, actually. Phil raised up and Clint looked down between them, where he noticed he was coming again, like, spurting and splashing as though there was no end to the come in him, dripping down his sides and off Phil’s chest and all Clint felt was high as a kite and like he never ever wanted to come down.

He tried to lift up, stopped by Phil’s hand on his wrists, then brought his feet up higher, over Phil’s back to bring him down, close, kissable. The taste of the musk only intensified everything, and Phil bit his lip again, his tongue, bit at and sucked an epic hickey on his jaw, his throat, out onto his shoulder as he came.

When he collapsed down onto Clint and let go of his hands, Clint laughed and stayed put. “Holy shit.”

Phil rolled them over, still inside Clint, and wrapped one arm around Clint’s back. With the other, he flailed around until he found something (a couple of shirts? Whatever) to cover them with, and then held Clint close with that arm, too.

“So,” he said, five or five hundred minutes later – Clint couldn’t tell how long he’d been completely out of his mind, but it turned out he didn’t care at all – “that was everything I have ever wanted out of life…you?”

Clint knew his grin was dopey as shit, which he also didn’t care about, but he nodded dreamily. “Did that feel like, did you feel like you were coming or was it something else?”

“Like something else?” Phil frowned. “What?”

“No, like, when you bit, it was like I was, it was like the time I had a bone infection and they gave me something so they could cut it open and seal it?”

“You had a bone infection?” Phil frowned again and tightened his grip around Clint. “Who gave you a bone infection?”

“No one. I fell. Anyway. No, that was the most spectacular however many minutes of my life.”

“Good. I hope to live up to it again in the morning.” Clint smiled again, then tried to wrestle himself free. “No, you stay.”

“I just wanna get blankets we can lie on,” Clint said. “Softer blankets and also warmer so you aren’t on the floor and also because we both might have enough bruises now.” He paused. “Do you feel, I don’t know, _settled_ somehow? Like everything is okay?”

“Mmmyes,” Phil said. He released Clint. “Two minutes. You have two minutes to get blankets and get back.”

“Yes, sir.” He opened the cabinets for blankets, found the remote from before to restart the biofilters just in case there was anything new to scrub, and made it back with two handfuls of fruit and protein jellies in 100 seconds flat, tucking himself in to spoon back against Phil’s chest, letting his head rest on his bicep, which had the delightful, and why had no one ever really told him this was a thing, effect of pressing the already-scabbed-over gland up against Phil’s armpit. Which felt amazing. 

He wondered if that would wear off, or if armpit-to-scar contact feeling good was part of the bond, part of the thing that would encourage them to stay physically close.

Phil shifted slightly, and Clint startled. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, Clint. I just needed to take some pressure off an old injury.” Phil shrugged the shoulder under Clint’s head. “It’s sensitive to weather and, evidently, hard fucking.”

Clint nodded, then quickly got up and went around Phil’s other side, snuggling right back in with his belly to Phil’s ribs and (yay!) his scabs making friends with Phil’s other armpit before Phil could manage an objection or do much more than roll onto his back. “There. Plus this way there can be kissing.” 

Phil pursed his lips. “I think probably we could have managed it where you were,” he said, “but you’re right, this will probably be easier.” He turned his head and lifted Clint’s chin to prove it.

“So, tell me the truth,” Clint said.

“Always,” Phil responded immediately, which was a really great reason to get distracted with more kissing.

“Okay, but seriously, am I going to get you in trouble?”

“Probably,” Phil said, “but not for this. This... Fury has been telling me for fifteen years I should settle down.”

“ _God,_ I wish I’d met you fifteen years ago,” Clint said. “Except you probably wouldn’t have wanted me then. I was kind of a mess.”

“You’re still kind of a mess, and I have wanted you since you got on my boat. Anyway, we’ll tell them there was a mix up with your suppressants. Fury will know I’m lying, and Hill will suspect, but tough shit if they want to make a federal case I’ll threaten to quit.”

“Will they call your bluff?”

“Oh hell no. I know where too many skeletons are buried, and besides that, the shipment will be on time despite our inconvenient interruption. No, the company will have no cause for complaint, and right now, I’m having a hard time remembering what a complaint _is_.” 

“And this, okay, I have to ask don’t hate me the part about not fucking up the shipment wasn’t the main reason, was it?”

“No. Nor the secondary one. There were other ways we _could_ have dealt with this, although none of them were good for you, so none of them were good for me.” Phil felt around where Clint had been lying in the first place and came up with the protein jellies. “Now here, eat.” He put one to Clint’s lips and waited for him to open, then set it on his tongue and let his index finger drag across Clint’s lower lip. 

“No. Fair,” Clint said. “I don’t even know if I can go again now, or today, or I don’t know maybe tomorrow, but next time I suck your dick I am _definitely_ finishing what I start, and I want you on a bed and comfortable.”

“Pushy, are we?”

“Is, um, that okay?”

“More than,” Phil assured him. “I’m counting on it. But before we leave here, I’m washing you, feeding you again, making sure every bruise is bandaged.”

“I don’t think bandages really help for bruises.”

“Don’t care.”

Clint grinned and took another protein jelly. “Me, either.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are a reader who needs to know that all will end up happy, all will end up happy, there is cuddling at the end, everyone feels settled and well, and no one gets in trouble.
> 
> Title note: in case anyone is worried the 'twice' means it's a remix of a remix or something: what I mean is: Clint has remixed his own pheromones with drugs, and also I remixed another fic to create this. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Tag notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> ABO fic has mpreg as kind of a persistent element, but I also know lots of people feel like mpreg is a hard pass. In this story, the concept is mentioned, as a thing Clint doesn't want to happen just because he's out of control with heat needs, and also as a thing that an alpha might find very appealing; however, it is clear there will not be a pregnancy from this encounter even though they leave it on the table for a future discussion.
> 
> Also, prostitution and forced breeding/sterilization are mentioned as things that occur in this 'verse because of or related to the ABO thing. It is clear that in the past Clint has used the services of prostitutes, and probably so has Phil, legally; however, none of this is particularly on-screen.
> 
> Drug use: in this story, Clint has taken a drug in order to manage his heats because they are messing up his life if allowed to happen naturally. The drug, therefore, is associated with sex behavior; however, his intention with this is not so much "get high and fuck" or "get someone high so I can fuck them," but rather, "take this drug and get the fucking out of the way so I can get on with my life."


End file.
